


You Know this Place

by Krystalicekitsu



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst, F/M, M/M, Magic, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter does what he must do to keep Neal and Elizabeth safe. Even if it's something neither of them wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know this Place

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://whitecollarswap.livejournal.com/profile)[**whitecollarswap**](http://whitecollarswap.livejournal.com/)'s fic exchange. This was really an interesting and sort of a wild bunch of prompts, but I sort of winged it (ha ha) and I like what happened.

"Peter?"

The call is hesitant, not afraid of a reaction, but more unsure that she's in the right place.

He turns from the precipice, casting one last look out over the glowing lights of a night-time New York. Peter Burke. How odd to be called that now.

"Come on, it's nearly time," Elizabeth murmurs, slipping behind him and resting a hand on his calf. The heat seeps in through his slacks, eating down to his skin, driving out the bite of a New England autumn.

"He's waiting, Peter," she pauses, glances up at him once then back to the glass doors at a muffled curse. "Please."

He purses his lips, a displeased and concerned expression from twenty years ago, glances down at her.

"Alright, El. I'll go."

The sentence isn't even finished before they're inside. Elizabeth gasps shakily in front of him, but Peter bares it little mind, already moving into the center of the house. As he goes, he runs fingers across wood paneling, savoring the rich texture and the ornateness of the banisters.

If June hadn't left Neal the house when she died, Peter would have put him up. He's just glad that he doesn't have to, now. Easier to have a place to crash that way. Out of the way, more hidden.

Peter owes him big for this.

He steps into what was the sun room- since repurposed- and watches as Neal curses again, sighs in an explosive, frustrated bout and makes a visible effort to relax. The canvas before him is beautiful, covered in detail and energy and raw passion. The colours are vivid and the lines dance about in the scene.

The Rialto Bridge.

Peter feels entranced, even as Neal brushes over a dog's foot with gesso and rinses a brush out. There's a large white space lying vacant on the bridge, vertical on the ledge, wider near the top and the bright white of the canvas is stark and flat next to the life and colour of the market stalls of the bridge and the bright blue of the water. Venice has never had water that blue. Peter doubts that the stalls have been cleaned up that much, too, but he's not going to press it.

Neal's the master in this, not him.

A can of compressed air and a personal fan dries the gesso quickly while Neal works on a flock of pidgeons in the spaces between the rails of the bridge. Each bird gets wings and tail feathers, a beak if you can see it. Peter can catch and eye or two if he looks closely, but it isn't until he's finished the last stroke of palest grey that the birds rustle, mantle and then resettle on the canvas.

The dog is dry and Neal corrects the dog's errant foot. He stretches out on black paws dappled with gold sunlight before falling back into an arrested trot.

This isn't the first time he's seen Neal at work. He's still amazing. _It's_ amazing. And he probably always will be. Even knowing that Neal's a Forger didn't prepare him for the reality of his craft at their first meeting, and nearly thirty years later watching Neal Forge still catches his breath and stirs something in his breast.

"If you're done staring…" Peter jumps, but he can hear the bright grin in the Neal's voice.

Peter steps forward into the sunroom, "It's been a while since you've done an original; Mozzie will be so disappointed."

Neal chuckles, not turning around and Peter is careful not to wander into his line of sight. He knows the rules.

"Mozzie would be disappointed if he wasn't too busy wooing his waitress friend down on Second," Neal puts down his brush and twitches his head towards Peter, not looking directly at him, but allowing Peter to see the light of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I'll send him a copy."

Peter snorts as he hears El coming up behind him, "Is that what he's been doing? Lauren will be disappointed; she's been hoping to catch him skimming from the jobs and dashing off to count his stash."

"Boys, we _are_ on a schedule, you know; the Italians will be here in three hours," El stands behind him and brushes fingertips longingly over his shoulder blades.

"Do we have to?" she murmurs, voice suddenly wistful and sad.

Peter turns and catches her hand, tugs her gently to him and kisses her, a warm brush of lips. He pulls back and hugs her, burying his face in her hair. "We have to, honey, you know that. It's not safe anymore, not with the new regulations."

He squeezes her one last time before turning about and stripping out of his suit jacket and vest. They get draped over a chair back, carefully arranged out of the way of empty containers of powders and dyes and mixing tubes. He leaves his shirt on and stands directly behind Neal again, bringing hands to massage the strong column of his neck.

"I hate this," Neal whispers.

Peter drops a kiss to his neck, "I know. But when this is all over, you can burn the canvas."

Neal's shoulders shudder and hitch before he takes a deep breath and nods once. "I'll hold you to that." Peter brushes a hand over his shoulders as he passes, going to stand in the halo of bright lights Neal had set up.

He's very careful to only face away from Neal, walks and waits until Neal directs him where to stand, how to pose. He's precisely directed into a graceful, elegant stance, head tilted up and to the side just barely enough to catch a hint of his face, hands spread away from his body, palms out. _Relaxed and reveling,_ El hushes.

Neal's voice tapers off, falls into a sad sort of silence. Then-

"Peter."

 _Please don’t make me do this._

 _I can't do this to you._

 _Please._

 _I need you._

 _I can't do it._

 _Don't make me._

 _  
It's time._

Careful to not disrupt his posture, Peter takes a breath. And then another and two more. He's not any calmer.

With a rippling, shuddering wrench his shirt tears and he shivers. The pose he's in means that his balance is all wrong for the pair of huge, bronze and gold feathered wings and the extra fifty pounds they suddenly attach to his back.

Elizabeth's breathing hitches.

Neither of the boys turn.

Peter can feel tears running down his cheeks silently and shifts his balance. His voice is blessedly clear and calm when he asks Neal where he wants him.

Neal's voice is the sort of fake, _nothing wrong here_ that he used the first year they knew him. The one that really means ' _I'm breaking on the inside and I don't know how to fix it_ '.

It isn't long before his wings are flexed up, high above his head and spread out, a mirror of what his hands are doing. At this position, they carefully and ingeniously conceal his face.

As planned, he drops them, lets Neal dust them with handfuls of white chalk, obscuring the bronze and coppers and the faint hint of gold that Neal had played with and painted over and over and over again. But that was different. That was safe and comfortable and Neal hadn't _Forged_ those pictures. He'd relied on his talents rather than his abilities.

When he stretches them out and up the final time, his wings are white as a dove's. They itch and Peter consoles himself with a wry, bitter smirk that he won't have to bear it for long.

When all's done Neal sighs, tells Peter to shift to his other foot, and begins.

His wings itch. And then they start to burn.

The tears come again, less of sorrow and more of the agony of nerves and tendons and ligaments being torn from his body. He can hear how fast Neal is painting, the brush making wet slaps across the canvas, _zzzzzzzit_ -ing where the metal ferrule of brush scratches and the _hissss_ of dry bristles over the fabric, and he gets the feeling the figure is going to be even more indistinct than they'd planned.

 _Slow down_ , he thinks. _I want them whole when I get them back_.

His wings feel seared and twisted. He wants to shout and whine, beg and plead. But he wouldn't- couldn't- do that to Neal. Not after asking this of him already.

He can hear El's breathing catching, shuddering.

It's painful, yes, but necessary and he won't make them watch as he suffers. He won't show that to them, but when the last, white hot thread of agony is ripped from his back and he hears Neal whisper 'I'm done', he can't help it. The cry is torn from his lips, voiced only as a whimper, as he collapses to the ground.

In seconds, Neal and Elizabeth are at his side, cradling him, holding him. Strong, painted hands smooth over his face, and brush away tears, a smaller face buried in his neck as matching hands sooth over his bare shoulder blades.

"It's done," Neal whispers into his hair and Peter sighs in relief and mourning.

It's not fair that he should have to mutilate himself to keep his freedom.

But, then again, life's not very fair.


End file.
